Poem: The Feathers

Poem: The Feathers

As a feather, fell gentle from the wing.

Bunched once together featherd,flight it did bring.

Light it now dances on the breeze.

Let this please those souls of sad content ,

Let this ease the load from madness bent ,

Let this tease the tortured heart so spent .

The feather flies, its flight denies

The gravity of the deed.

It floats and spins through unseen seas.

Of surging current of clear fresh breeze.

Let my children the feathers be.

Dropped from the wing once family .

Caught captured flung

Spun swirled through life

The feather might try with all its might

But flight, grew on the wing

Lets sing, redemptions song .

can this song ,in text be wrong ?

Feathers lost along the flight

Life’s journey long , the wing , the right

The wrong, the up the down

Together once we all began.

Feathers on a wing, we sing the song

The song life gave us all

All along.

Now old I lay my tired head,

Upon those feathers and go to bed.

Eckernförde 2012

Poem: Your laughter

Poem: Your Laughter

I love the laugh, the smile which sparkles in your eye.

Collect them in a magic box

For moments when I cry.

I’ll keep the key forever

Wrapped warm within my heart .

For we will sing & laugh & play,

this day, fresh new to start.

When alone in wonder, my thoughts play hide & seek.

A chuckle found inside that box which helps to let me keep.

You warm & cozy calling deep down within my soul.

My memories of a happy face, the place to call my home.

So sing sweet tunes my darling,

Of times we’ve shared and true.

Take my key for this deep night,

The love so strong of you.

Liam November 2017

Poem: Evening Rest

Poem: Evening Rest

Evening Rest

As this day now leaves to lie,

Rays once warm they fill the sky.

In colors changing to heaven bright.

The blues to hues of reds, the white the golden might.

Of a day departed and with me too.

One more moment of bliss complete.

Of touch and love of fleeting happy you.

Yes, you an angel dancing high.

Dancing clouds you cross my eye .

Your horizon lies with me this day.

You fill the night with a starry sky,

with sparks,

with thoughts,

with dreams,

with intervening flashes we unite.

Build a picture, a cosmology ,

A heaven, a party book of light.

Closing now my eyes to sleep

The wonder in my breast I’ll keep.

Till waking neigh on mornings wing

A new, a day together we’ll sing.

Liam July 2017

Poem: Troubled

Poem: Troubled

You leave me again tumbling,

Stumbling on your shadow.

Our thoughts and laughter like too…. perfume me.

yet still

I hear heart ache tangled in your hair

I feel & feel & freeze.

The play set act scene,

You moved in me again.


The game set match,

You won in me again.

It’s all in

I’ll give in

You take my heart

Cake and eat it too.



I stay, steam rising from my tears,

I may, yet it’s you who that’s gone astray.

This day


Haby 2014

On writing Poetry

On writing poetry.

Writing poetry is like chewing bubble gum. You rip the packaging off an idea and it’s initially all sweet and tough.

As you then chew into it, my thoughts warm up making the core idea soften. I move & mould it constantly around in my mind. Like the squeeze and squish of gum in your mouth, it oozes flavor inspiring more action. Words are pretty plastic if you chew on them long enough too.

Now it’s not so much a thinking thing, it’s more mastication. Trying out the different flavors words make with one another.

Like alliteration, onomatopoeia, some times even disambiguation finds its authenticity in a poem.

A moment of inspiration sometimes arrives as I focus on blowing the bubble. I become deep, it’s moving towards the finishing line now.

The pointe grows like a pink bubble on my lips .

Intension, Momentum , inclusion, exhalation, expansion and finally expulsion….yes!


With gum stuck across my face and a happy smile it’s been done again.

A poem plastered across a page, splats of ink sometimes smeared and illegible but it’s done, the bubble blown and you can get back to doing your life again or simple blow another. Liam

Poem: Why we Work?

Poem: Why we work?

As the minutes hours & the day,
pass along go their way
Happy is that which lets me share.
Words, my words
So deep , so strong, and fair,
Feelings had, the fun the care.
Spent with you, through you,
Though not here nor there,
nor anywhere like near.

You are far away from me in body,
But hidden in my heart, the bud.

Full blossomed bearing strong.

Begins to unfold.

Smiling my lips recall a time,
Fun filled joy, simply knowing.
You are still deep in mine.
Mine to behold, hold and inspire.

My day, the way I hold my pen,
My word, unspoken but still heard.
“Rings chimes sings”
My heart, the start, the fundamental  plot.

Why WE work!

The chemistry of our bones.
The different soil of our DNA.

The fundamental spirituality which cements our togetherness.

Liam November 2018

On Reading Poetry: Act 5, 16-20

16. As your ability to read poems improves, so will your ability to read the news, novels, legal briefs, advertisements, etc. A Starbucks poster a few years ago read: Friends are like snowflakeseach one is unique. How true. But isn’t snow also cold and ephemeral? Let’s hope our friends are not.

17. Reading poetry is not only about reading poetry. Its alleged hermetic stylizations of syntax and diction can enhance your awareness of the world, even those things that don’t deal directly in words. A dress, a building, a night sky—all involve systems of pattern-recognition and extrapolation.

18. The very best way to read a poem is perhaps to be young, intelligent, and slightly drunk. There is no doubt, however, that reading poems in old age cultivates a desire to have read more poems in youth.

19. Someday, when all your material possessions will seem to have shed their utility and just become obstacles to the toilet, poems will still hold their value. They are rooms that take up such little room. A memorized poem, or a line or two, becomes part internal jewelry and part life-saving skill, like knowing how to put a mugger in an arm-lock or the best way to cut open a mango without slicing your hand.

20. Reading a good poem doesn’t give you something to talk about. It silences you. Reading a great poem pushes further. It prepares you for the silence that perplexes us all: death.